


No Light, Darkness Visible

by threefacade



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Bad Choices All Around, Gen, many little stories to make a full one, maybe dont get help from a bar magician, origin story for a DBD killer oc, sad jazz music, terrible people doing terrible things, that's not how you use a letter opener
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefacade/pseuds/threefacade
Summary: He takes his time preening, shower cold and enough to keep him grounded, putting meticulous work into his uniform. With the sleep deprivation comes concern, the least he can do is work to evade as much concern as possible. He combs his hair back, willing his hands to stop shaking as they press the comb closer to his scalp. For a moment, he catches his expression in the mirror. He sees himself haunted and forces a smile for a moment.“Nobody has to know,” he says to himself. “Nobody at all.”A story of how two men at the lowest points in their lives come together to create something bigger than themselves.





	1. Booze Priest

   New Orleans in July remains overly-tepid, the air stagnating in a humid wet that suffocates anyone daring to walk outside in the daylight hours. To the locals who refuse to become slightly amphibious as a means to crawl about in the sun, they wait until sunset, air cool enough to walk around the city with less discomfort.   
  
   Some take to Bourbon Street, tucked away in the throngs of bars and restaurants in the French Quarter, but those with less mortal standards and aversions to crowds, they reject the tourist trap. Instead, they file into the Seventh Ward; and between the brick and mortar of a weaver’s shop and an ever-changing art gallery, there lies the Bonn Nui.   
  
   Inside the ramshackle hole in the wall,  the air is tense and wrought with unease, the supernaturally inclined guests speaking in tongues and hissing curses at one another. A drink spilled here, the right men beating the wrong guys, an air of heavy drugs and blood on everyone’s own breath.   
  
   Dozens upon dozens of people situate themselves at tables and bars,- talking among their own groups in hushed whispers as the proprietor flitters between tables and patrons. Jean Bernier, an older man well into his fifties, looks on with amicable eyes behind thick glasses and adjusts a black fedora adorned with pheasant feathers. His suit is ill-fit but only barely discernible should anyone take a hard look at his entire person. A bartender, however, takes great notice.   
  
    He stands behind a ramshackle shelf, cursing a bottle of whiskey as he fights with the wax seal, hands still damp from handling previous wet glasses, and as Jean sidles up to the bar, he greets him.   
  
   “Jean, get that suit tailored, you look like a carpetbagger.” The bartender grits between his teeth, wax seal finally breaking and sending small pebbles of wax scattering behind the bar.   
  
   “Dr. Leavy, you know I can’t do that, I’d lose all the panache of being a blues-man! The suit makes it work!” Jean responds, heavily decorated hand clapping down on the bar.   
  
   “Okay, fine. You don’t even play a lick of any instrument- fine. Also, you really don’t need to call me Dr. Leavy.” He mutters to himself, pouring the whiskey into a shot glass with the bare minimum amount of focus he could deign to the situation.   
  
   “No, you’re always going to be  _ Doctor _ Leavy. You did all those classes to get your doctorate, but you’re out here slinging whiskey sours at folks!” Jean muses, snatching the glass from Leavy’s hands. “It’s the novelty that keeps people coming back to the Bonn Nui!”   
  
   Leavy snatches the glass, drink sloshing barely over the rim.    
  
  “Jean Bernier, what the hell do you want?”    
  
   Jean smiles, knowingly and wicked.    
  
   “I need you to tend to the fight that’s bound to go down any minute, now. You hear me, witchdoctor?” His voice is quiet and serious. “If they want to fight-“   
  
   “They go to Maman’s three blocks down.” Leavy interrupts, tapping his temple. The rule gives Jean a smile, and he turns away from the bar, sauntering into the fray of rising whoops and hollers from both sides of the bar.    
  
   Leavy sighs, heavy and exhausted when he excuses himself from the bar for a moment, hand shoved into his pocket as he fishes for the solution to his problem. In his palm, three pieces of paper, a bottle cap, and a pocket knife. His free hand jams itself into another pocket and pulls a slightly lint-coated rosary from the fraying threads. Alone, Leavy realizes these things make him look like the world’s worst Catholic. Together, these would most likely solve Jean’s problem.   
  
   He places the rosary around his neck and begins his speech, years of scripture lecture working into his tone. He stands between both sides and their bickering, with placid agitation.   
  
   “As much as I would love to see a fight tonight, I must remind our patrons that the Bonn Nui is a strictly non-combative zone. Any dipshit who wants to get into a fight can-“   
  
   “Fuck off, booze priest!”   
  
   His short lecture is cut terminally short when a barstool is launched from the stage area to the pool table, wooden splinters showering the adjacent area. Another patron yells in indignation before picking up the shattered leg of the barstool, swinging it hard against the head of the original culprit.   
  
   As the mob frenzies, chairs breaking and bodies slammed against walls and tables alike, spitting and fussing, Leavy hears Jean’s command, strained as he restrains a spindling man from throwing another punch at the closest person.    
  
   “Doctor Leavy, so help me god, you better get with that religious hoodoo magic shit!”   
  
   He breaks from his mild stupor, knife turning in his hand to draw blood from his palm, cursing a trinity before taking one of the small scraps of paper and placing it against the wound. There’s a moment of silence awash over the room, before a booming collective heartbeat. When someone opens their mouth to cry out, it is a concussive force that blows everybody in the room back against the wall. Leavy stands, wide stance, two pieces of paper and a bottle cap stuck between his fingers.   


   “We got a  _ goddamned  _ policy, here. Be nice or  _ leave, _ ” He says, teeth gritting. “Now none of you were being  _ nice,  _ and you certainly didn’t leave. So now old Booze Priest has to do  _ this. _ ”  
  
   One paper dissolves into a blue flame, the other into an inky tar, while the bottlecap rolls amidst both. Leavy tosses the cap, and as it falls to the ground, another concussive blast comes with a burst of blue light, an electric flashbang in the confines of the bar.   
  
   When Leavy can finally see again, his rosary burns white-hot, and his throat bleeds red and black. He doesn’t remember collapsing onto the floor. He can’t help but scream into the back of his hand, the other clawing at the floorboards for some kind of purchase against the searing pain. Looking around, he realizes the patrons have vanished. Every bloodied body now just a vague stain on the floor and wall.    
  
    When the pain subsides, he comes to his knees and makes the faint outline of a body, pheasant-feather fedora singed on the floor.    
  
    In that moment, he realizes the gravity of the situation.   
  
   He scrambles to his feet, bodies of the others be damned, that’s not important to him at the moment. They’re gone, not dead. Just entirely gone. It’s what Jean wanted, isn’t it?   
  
   Then again, as he comes closer to the body still as a statuette, he figures Jean would have wanted not to die, either.   
  
   Had he died in the first concussive blast or the light? Was this murder, or manslaughter?   
  
   Dr. Leavy takes the body, dragging it from the debris of barstools and tables past to the center of the room, sitting on the floor next to the still body.   
  
  "How’s that for religious hoodoo bullshit, Jean?” He mutters through a clenched jaw. “You goddamn loony son of a bitch. Now I’m gonna have to bury your ass.”   
  
   Jean doesn’t respond, and Leavy places his hands over his eyes, breathing harsh and unstable.     
  
   “What the fuck are we gonna do about this?”    



	2. Missing Priest

   Past the city, near the marshes and swamps where everything loses the tourism veneer, a seminary sits with its old brick and white-paneled structure. The Assembly of God looks out across the thickness of the brackish marsh, dormitory windows facing the expanse.   
  
   A loud crack jolts a clergyman from his sleep, limbs moving wild and erratic as if he had been set on fire himself, loudly and helplessly gasping in shock and terror.   
  
   Ezekiel Hart wakes from a nightmare, forcing himself from his bed to look out into the marsh below. From the third floor of the building, he sees nothing but a spark of blue light, wild and untamed, before fizzling into darkness once again. He makes out the shape of a man and a car, but nothing else.    
  
   Ezekiel returns to his bed, clasping his hands over the back of his neck. The silence echoes through the halls as he is certain that he is the only one who had managed to catch a glimpse of the stranger in the marsh.    
  
_    It was like the nightmare come alive _ , he thinks. Blue flame consuming everything in its path and leaving nothing in its wake. All that’s missing from this version of his nightmare is the voice of God.   
  
  He decides that now would be a good a time as any to prepare for the morning’s service, even if the sun wouldn’t rise for a few more hours. In this case, Ezekiel knows he won’t be going back to sleep- the blue light still burnt into the periphery of his vision like a terrible omen.   
  
   He takes his time preening, shower cold and enough to keep him grounded, putting meticulous work into his uniform. With the sleep deprivation comes concern, the least he can do is work to evade as much concern as possible. He combs his hair back, willing his hands to stop shaking as they press the comb closer to his scalp. For a moment, he catches his expression in the mirror. He sees himself haunted and forces a smile for a moment.   
  
   “ _ Nobody has to know _ ,” he says to himself. “ _ Nobody at all. _ ”   
  
  The halls are empty, even for the early morning, and Ezekiel can’t tell if the world itself is humming the omens of a cruel moment at him, or if it’s only his nerves. He clasps his hands together near his face as he walks to the church proper, breathing slowly with a ragged exhale.    
  
   He sits in the church, in the first row of pews, legs crossed as he thumbs through a hymnal. Someone would show up, soon enough. Usually another deacon, and that would at least give him another thing to fixate on.    
  
   But the deacon never comes, and Ezekiel feels his heart clench in his chest.   
  
   Neither does the Reverend.   
  
   When students begin to fill the pews, Ezekiel hears the hushing and the worry from the amassing crowd, and the paranoia sinks in. He stands, rigid as ever, dress shoes tapping against the wood and silencing across the carpet until he stands at the pulpit, hands over the podium to ground himself. Dozens of eyes look up to him when he sputters a cough to draw the attention of the parish to himself.    
  
   “As a deacon of this church, and the mentee of Reverend King,“ He begins, slow and careful to avoid fumbling his words. “I have a duty to the people to take up service when the reverend cannot fulfil his duties.”   
  
   “But where is he?” A student asks, her voice loud and drenched in the concern that lies in a pit at the bottom of Ezekiel’s stomach. “He’s never missed a service, before.”   
  
   “And what about  _ our _ deacon? No offense to you, of course,” Another student asks. “But, Deacon McAllister usually presides over the worship on Sundays.”   
  
   Ezekiel blinks in confusion, hand drawing circles across the top of the pulpit.    
  
   “I- I suppose you’re right, it is Sunday, isn’t it?” His question is a lie, bold-faced to give himself a shield from his own creeping suspicion that something has gone terribly wrong. That the fire he dreamt of, the fire he saw, marks something worse for the seminary itself.   
  
   He smiles, briefly.   
  
  “This is fairly concerning, I agree,” His voice rings smoother than it had previously managed. “So, let’s make this a learning experience, shall we?”   
  
   A murmur from the captive audience, and Ezekiel taps his temple with his finger.    
  
  “If one of those in their last few weeks with us is here today, preferably Anne, could lead a discussion on the parable of Job- I’d be much obliged to go look for the reverend and deacon alike.”   
  
   Anne rises, near immediately and trades places with Ezekiel, who takes her hand and thanks her warmly before skirting down the aisle and through the doors. Behind himself, he can hear Anne’s voice, in full command of her audience. He thinks she’ll go far and do well. He wants her to.   
  
   He also wants to stop the gnawing in the back of his mind.   
  
   Ezekiel comes to the doors of the library in the main hall, staring at the inscribed title of “ _ Abernathy Theological Library _ ” is brilliant gold lettering against a dark plate above the frame. He places his hands over the handles to the door and turns, only to be greeted with a firm lock mechanism pushing back. He jingles the knobs, shaking fervently and muttering under his breath.    
  
   A fifth shake of the door causes it to swing open, and the salt and pepper face of one Deacon McAllister stares back at him.    
  
   “What do you need, Ezekiel?” He asks, voice placid. Ezekiel stares back with wide eyes.   
  
   “I- Why is the library locked from the inside? And why aren’t you- Why are- Where is-“   
  
   “Ezekiel, can you please just say what you need, there’s been a bit of a problem.” McAllister chides, seniority glaring in his tone. His form covers the frame of the door, and for a moment Ezekiel stands frozen, head cocked to the side.   
  
   In a swift motion, he shoves past the elder deacon with all the weight he can manage, barreling into the library commons as McAllister yells out in indignation- commanding him to stay back and return to the mass, to leave the library.   
  
  Ezekiel’s hands rise to cover his mouth, body trembling.   
  
   In the rafters, entangled in a velvet rope noose, the body of Reverend King swings gently in the draft of the library. The pit and pendulum of the church.    
  
   As the deacon places his hands against his shoulders, Ezekiel screams- wrought in agony.   
  
   Wrought with rage.   



	3. Two Priests

   It was daylight when the police arrived at the seminary, their units filling the gravel parkway out front of the small private college main building. Everything was desecrated at that moment, every door forced open and every student trembling in their dorms. The omens had been correct, and Ezekiel’s heart sinks with every hour.   
  
   The sun has sunken completely, too,  by the time Ezekiel is released from questioning, and in a moment of desperation, he heads towards the city, abandoning students and church alike. He thinks his God would be ashamed of his cowardice, his failure to stand in the face of gruesome tragedy. Ezekiel bites back a sob more than once at the thought, indignation suffocating him in the summer air.   
  
   He walks as a wraith of himself, through the streets of New Orleans, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by; ashamed of himself and the tragedy surrounding him. He moves aimlessly, fumbling through the memory of the city until he comes across a vibrant cyan light bouncing off of the old tin-paneled fixture against the wall of a bar. He makes out the words “Magician” and “Inside” in dingy neon tube letters, a comment piquing Ezekiel’s interest and full attention. Enough to stop him from his wandering and pull him through the bar.   
  
   The bar is nearly empty, save for a few patrons who nurse their drinks in an uneasy silence. A single guitarist sits at the front of the bar, tuning his instrument at a painstakingly slow pace. Again, Ezekiel finds himself avoiding eye-contact, and pacing towards the back of the bar.

   He didn’t expect the bar to be completely unattended, glancing around the nearly- abandoned shop until he situates himself at the bar and fiddles with a damp ceramic coaster between his fingers. He flicks it to-and-fro before it clatters onto the rubber mat lining the floor of the bar behind the counter, and Ezekiel flinches at the dropped coaster.

   He yelps when the coaster is slammed onto the counter by a seemingly disembodied hand, soaked in an eerie blue glow. What immediately follows is a bartender, rising from the floor.

   His glasses are askew, undercut overgrown and over-bleached until it became a barely socially-acceptable mullet. Ezekiel notices his throat, heavily scarred and reddened with what he made out to be a new tattoo of a syncretic veve. His face is unshaven, and when Ezekiel opens his mouth to speak, he cuts him off.

   “Don’t even think about asking me if I was sleeping under the bar.” He slurs, leaning hard against the counter. 

   “Ah, no, no. That’s none of my business-“ Ezekiel steels himself, staring down his pince-nez at the ramshackle man in front of him. “That blue glow. Do you know anything about anyone in the marshes near the seminary? I saw that same color the other night.”

_    And in a nightmare,  _ he thinks to himself.

   His question gets a stare in response, mouth barely agape as the bartender processes the request. It’s not long before he shoves something between his teeth, biting hard as he lights the tip with a broken cigar lighter.

   “This is the  _ Bonn Nui,  _ not the voodoo helpdesk. Get your shit in order, and order something,” The bartender says, gray haze surrounding his face. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

   Ezekiel looks away for a moment, sputtering through the wall of smoke. 

   “I don’t really drink, sir. And, for the record, my name is Deacon Ezekiel Hart,” He starts, before looking to the bartender’s hands again. “And with that magic you just did, you’re either the man from the marsh or the ‘famous’ Dr. Leavy- as foretold by the sign on the bar entrance.”

   The bartender is completely still, glowering into the middle distance.

   “Look, Hart. I don’t know what the hell a goddamned  _ deacon  _ needs from a  _ bartender  _ or a  _ witch doctor,  _ but none of this is good.” His voice is serious.

  “So you’re Dr. Leavy?” Ezekiel asks.

   “I’m  _ both,  _ you nosey motherfucker. Now get on with it and tell me what the hell happened.”

   Ezekiel, for the first time in several hours, smiles. He folds his hands in front of himself, absolutely content in the knowledge that maybe the flame had not been an  _ omen _ , but a  _ beacon.  _ Even if the beacon was a toking, swearing, jackass. It suffices, and Ezekiel feels himself relax.

   “Reverend King was murdered sometime yesterday evening, and his body was found in the library of the seminary,” Ezekiel starts. “Police investigations turn no leads, and I’m afraid my mentor’s death will be marked a suicide.”

   “So, you want guidance? Like, honest to god guidance? I don’t read tarot cards, ‘zeke. I’m a magician, not a psychic.” Leavy says through another drag of smoke.

   “No, I don’t want guidance, per se,” Ezekiel says, quietly. “I know who did it, I want the means for  _ revenge _ .”

   The edge in his voice is enough to get a blink from Leavy, who touches his throat almost automatically, fingers tracing down the x-shaped patterns inside the cross itself as if he’s trying to figure out the best option. His heart hurts for the deacon, at least.

   “How familiar are you with the  _ local  _ saints, ‘zeke?” Leavy asks, moving from around the bar to make his way closer to Ezekiel, who finds himself smiling, faintly.

   “Are you suggesting the  _ saints  _ will help with your magic?” 

   “No shit, Sherlock,” Leavy says, pulling Ezekiel to his feet and towards a door, slightly offset in the frame. “You’re a priest, why wouldn’t we use saints?”

   “Saints for  _ revenge?”  _ He whispers.

   “ _ All of them have some bones to pick,”  _ Leavy says, pulling Ezekiel further into the dim room, shutting the door behind them with a forceful  _ thud. _


	4. Haunted Priest

_      “Dr. Michael Leavy,” _ Ezekiel blurts into the silence as the other shuffles through boxes upon boxes of materials. “Is that you?  _ The  _ Michael Leavy?” 

   Leavy looks up from his handful of votive candles, a sharp glower bearing down on Ezekiel when the question comes up, demanding immediate silence. 

   “You said my name at the bar.” He says, curtly.

   “I read it off a sign and thought it sounded familiar,” Ezekiel clarifies, sinking into his chair- completely unafraid of Leavy and ignoring his demand. The votives clatter onto the table, some falling sideways and rolling into Ezekiel’s lap. “You used to drop by the seminary to lecture on ethics in organized religion. You were also a brunette.”

   He places a severed chicken foot amidst the votives, tangled in a wreath of sage. When he steps back, Leavy wipes at his face impassively, side of his hand rubbing the underside of his nose. “And what about it?”

   Ezekiel notices the single long nail on his hand, others bit down entirely and holds back a grimace. 

   “You used to  _ command  _ that audience with your talks on postlapsarian men and the concept of morality only existing through disobedience,” Ezekiel begins to ramble as Leavy’s eyes dodge his and scan the room for spare materials to use in his work. “I  _ adored  _ your research-“

   “Well, what’s stopping you now?” He says, sitting himself across from Ezekiel and lighting the candles in a cross formation. Ezekiel is quick to respond.

   “The signs of cocaine use should be enough, Dr. Leavy. You’ve abandoned-“

   “I haven’t abandoned  _ shit,”  _ Leavy swears, snapping his lighter shut as he takes the switchblade from his pocket, flipping the blade out to face Ezekiel. “And my drug habits have  _ nothing  _ to do with my research. Do you want this saint’s advice, or do you want to lecture me about my lectures?”

   “Apologies. Yes, I would love to- to receive that very advice.” Ezekiel says, voice hushed with his embarrassment, yet still tinged in a sense of excitement. 

   The excitement turns to a sense of immediate disgust when the blade sinks into Leavy’s palms, three gashes in each, and a flick of the knife against his own throat. He doesn’t scream or flinch, body still and unmoving except for the gentle heaving of his shoulders. The ex-professor sits there, in a meditative, bloody hush. Ezekiel finds himself losing his sense of hatred and repulsion, watching the gash in the man’s palms and neck with awe. 

   Then, the silence falls away as Leavy speaks his prayer, a Latin incantation jumbled with French and the ghosts of languages past, all until something like a crack of thunder breaks through the calm in the room. Leavy’s glasses fall from his face, dropping onto the table to reveal his eyes gone white- iris and pupil completely erased.

   At that moment, Ezekiel understands the enormity of his request and the situation he’s built for himself. He catches his eyes watering, and he can’t tell if it comes from the mortal fear or ethereal awe.

   “Why do you call?” A voice unlike Leavy’s speaks through Leavy’s own mouth, his hands clasped in his lap. Ezekiel wipes at his eye, before clearing his throat.

   “I seek a blessing to avenge the late Reverend King, in the name of God.” 

   The voice, the  _ saint,  _ gives a low laugh in response- Almost mocking in its sincerity.

   “Child, do I sound like the lord, our father?”

   “No, but you’ve answered more than he has in the last day or so,” Ezekiel says, eyes holding firm contact.

   “And all you want is that? Noise to kill to?” The saint asks, voice melting into a purr.

   “Just give me a sign, a direction,  _ anything-“  _ he bites back a hitch in his breathing, the image of the reverend’s gentle swaying body tangled in velvet flickering through his mind on repeat. “I just want some goddamned  _ solace  _ in this nightmare.”

   The quiet between them is thick before Leavy’s hands- operated by the heart of the saint- open to reveal a ceramic rosary, beads yellowing with their age. His expressionless eyes beg him to take it, and so Ezekiel removes it from his shaking hands. On further inspection, he sees the vague initials etched into the crucifix at the end of the beads, his thumb running over the divets until the voice commands his attention once again.

   “Do not close yourself to the command of God,” it begins, the kindness and sincerity almost sounding  _ off  _ to Ezekiel’s ears, but he listens, still. “Go forth and judge the  _ liars  _ and the  _ violators.  _ Become our Father’s right hand.” 

   A pause and Leavy’s mouth quirks upwards.

   “Why don’t you smile when you face the void.”

    With the final commandment, Leavy snaps his fingers and the air seems to leave the room for a moment. Ezekiel struggles to find his breath as the votives at the table blow out. Leavy’s body falls back into his chair- a blue flame consuming the chicken foot left in a pile of sage at the table, the last light in the room. 

   It’s not long before Leavy begins to cough up blood, and Ezekiel watches the gash in his throat come to a close in a small miracle in its own right. He ambles to Leavy, slow as not to startle him, and crouches by his side. He notices his eyes are bloodshot, either a side effect of channeling a saint or doing a multitude of  _ things. _

   He can’t judge him, though. Not after this.

   He takes a bloodied hand in his, knuckles pressed to his lips for a chaste kiss, before the hand turns on him, rubbing at his face.

   “ _ I owe you my life, Dr. Leavy,”  _ Ezekiel says in the quiet of the room. “ _ Or at least, I owe my religion.” _

   The comment falls on deaf ears, the hand growing heavy and limp in Ezekiel’s grasp. When he stands, he places the hand in Leavy’s lap, ghosting towards the door to leave the ex-lecturer in peace, chest barely rising and falling.

   He exits the bar with his faith intact.


	5. Bloody Priest

   The Assembly of God is silent when Ezekiel returns in the late hours of the morning, his face and hands still stained with light smears of blood. The rosary is around his neck, held close as he shifts through the hallways. He steps lightly, hiding from the echo of his own existence until he stops in the doorway of the library.

   The body has long since been moved, but at the threshold, the image blinks into his mind, tangled in velvet cord. He stands, frozen, fingers touching gently at the cross at his neck. In the void of memory, he smiles and continues through the library. 

   He situates himself in between rows of archaic texts, books tossed aside when their contents were rendered useless. Then, he thinks to his prior lessons. His own commandments. He peels book after book from the shelves, amassing a pile at a writing desk affixed to the back wall of the study.

   Ezekiel reads in feverish silence in the lamplight, pages flipping in erratic patterns. He obsesses over Genesis and Exodus, the fall of man and the commandments, his own image reflected in the archangel of Eden. To witness acts of crime against God, to rectify and punish- Leavy  _ had  _ been correct in his mutterings about revenge- and Ezekiel saw nothing but the bloodied hands of a killer obstructing the light. 

   He is Moses, commanded by God. He is the archangel, commanded by God. He is the final piece of creation’s trinity, and this knowledge sends him into a frenzy.

   He begins to rip pages from the books as he finishes marking them, his notes smeared with still-damp ink.  When the ink runs dry, he is only just finished with the book of Exodus, and he finds himself  _ cursing  _ the loss of the guidance. He sits in silence, surrounded by books speaking of the past alone. He is not the past, but the future of the church, of the faith. 

   He opens another book, fixations on the book of Revelations; every prophetic word and detail of the apocalypse-  _ apokalypsis  _ as written in the text he finds- and Ezekiel finds himself smiling, once again. In the face of certain extinction, he manages to laugh in a rabid sense of joy, echoing through the empty library.

   He remembers the ink had run dry, hours of scrawling in the windowless room causing him to lose track of time and reality as he fixates on the texts. He thinks of Leavy, and the quickness which he drew his own blood, the unflinching motion of knife against skin.

   Ezekiel also remembers that he has a letter opener at his disposal, but the tip of the calligraphy pen could likely suffice if he put force behind it. He pockets the letter opener and moves the pen across his left hand.

   The pen drags and breaks the skin of his palm, his teeth clenched as he keeps a scream centered in his chest, his fist curling above the empty inkwell to collect the blood. When finished, he presses his palm harshly against his thigh, black slacks hiding the blossoming stain. 

   He continues his notes, all things apocalyptic circled and marked, language annotated until he could barely read the original text through his own markings- deep red turning russet on the scritta.

   He takes the books with him, leaving the study in a state of complete disrepair, books scattered, the lamp still lit in the oppressive dark.

   He comes to his own sermon days later, completely disheveled, outfit unkempt and his glasses fixed high on the bridge of his nose. His books lie open around his feet at the pulpit, students sitting in rigid silence. 

   “Deacon Hart-“ one begins, fingers tensing on the back of the pew in front of him. “You don’t look well.”

    Ezekiel raises a brow, earnestly inquisitive and a challenge all at once. His voice is soft, measured. “I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

    There’s a murmur in the crowd until the doors creak open, and McAllister stands in the center of the pews, his spindling form taking up the aisle. 

   “I  _ thought  _ I heard someone say there was a deacon running around looking  _ unwell.” _ He speaks, climbing closer to the pulpit. Ezekiel freezes, shame caught in the back of his mind for a moment. “You shouldn’t be giving these sermons.” 

   The murmur rises, and Ezekiel’s mind finds it’s center, his voice rising over the growing noise.

   “Find it in your hearts to be  _ silent,  _ would you kindly?” His voice is loud and trembling. “My friend, could you please come here?”

    McAllister joins Ezekiel at the altar in the hush, and Ezekiel leans into him, shaking as McAllister’s hands press against his shoulders. He can make out the stutter of a heartbeat in the quiet.

   “Somebody killed the reverend,” Ezekiel mutters into his shoulder.

   “I know, Hart,” McAllister responds, voice calm and quiet.

   “ _ I know you know,”  _ Ezekiel says, hand slipping against his pocket, procuring the letter opener, unsheathed like an assassin’s blade.

   When McAllister pulls away, he notices Ezekiel’s hand a second too late.

   The letter opener is driven, harsh into the eye of the deacon, a spray of blood awash against Ezekiel’s face as his left-hand forces him into the ground, the deacon’s voice a choking scream- optic tissue caught around the opener as he removes it from his socket.

   “ _ Did you think I was blind, Deacon?”  _ Ezekiel speaks, voice like a hymn. “Of all the people in this church, it was  _ you  _ to find the body of the Reverend?  _ My  _ reverend?”

    The screaming is wordless, amplified only when the other eye is given the same violent treatment, the captive audience awash with shock and terror.

   “The devil conspired with God to take  _ everything  _ from Job,” He announces, resplendent in his self-satisfaction. “When Job asked God about the tragedy, God simply responded ‘ _ Who are you to make demands?’  _ and Job learned his place.” 

   When he draws back the letter opener, McAllister collapses onto the altar floor, body still save for the marginal heaving of his chest.

   “So, what have I done, dear McAllister?” Ezekiel asks, glancing back to the crowd. “ _ I’ve been shown my place.” _

    The tension breaks and the crowd drowns in a sense of mass hysteria.


	6. Void Priest

   In the passing days, the local police stay mum- not a single visit to the overgrown marsh surrounding the seminary. Had any outgoing calls been made, any cries for help and demands for protection been made, surely they would have come running to the defense of the would-be pastors.

   But the seminary was quiet, at least, to the outside world.

   The chapel itself is worse for wear, the bodies in the pews sitting upright and rigid as they look forward- jaws clenched shut while their pastor speaks, the building gone completely dark from the inside. Only a menagerie of lit candles in their tarnished candlesticks lights the altar from behind, queasy orange glow drenching his shoulders in the darkness. 

   “Certainly, we could only  _ wait  _ to die, come the end of the end,” he speaks in measured quiet, as if afraid to startle those in their seats. His clothes are stained with blood and ink, glasses broken with splintering web fractures through the lens. “Are we simply waiting for our end?”

   His arms move in sweeping motions, a gesture to nothing in particular, but his left-hand passes over the immersive baptismal font; the dark basin with bodies half-sunk in the water and hung over the ledge. At the multitudes of legs, blood pools around the feet. The bodies of the students hang as ornaments against the well, and Ezekiel pays them no regard or respect.

   “I would suggest that we would all be dead and damned,” Ezekiel begins again. “But, that would doubt the fact that you have been  _ specifically  _ chosen for salvation. The most upright lot in the assembly of God, chosen by his most upright right-hand.” 

   He wasn’t expecting the mass before him to speak back.

   “God doesn’t allow  _ cruelty!”  _ An older student yells out, and the bodies turn to face the source of the noise, near-simultaneous as their expressionless faces give a sense of gravity in the mistake. Ezekiel raises both brows, shocked by the response as he saunters forward, hand slipping across the pulpit to procure a thick cross from its face. 

   He stops in the aisle, against the arm of the student’s pew. 

   “ _ God  _ doesn’t allow  _ cruelty?”  _ he whispers, harsh. “Come to me, sir. I have a request for you, alone.”

   The student rises, slow as he walks with palpable caution until he lies in arms reach of Ezekiel, who hands him the cross, reflexively.

    “And what do you feel, holding it?” He asks, pensive.

   “It’s- It’s heavy. Heavier than it should be.”

   “It’s a crucifix, you  _ loudmouthed  _ brat,” He speaks through his teeth, this time, taking the cross with a single hand to hold it upright before cradling it close.

   “ _ Die he, or justice must. _ Is that phrase clear to you? Absolution of the  _ cruelty  _ of God, the slaughter of the son in the name of slaughter for human error.” Ezekiel yells out, voice wrought with divine purpose and the underlying hiss of rage. “Die  _ they,  _ so justice  _ persists.”  _

   A murmur rises amongst the churchgoers, like moths to a flame at the sound of Ezekiel’s preaching, they turn to face the bloodied preacher and the student, trembling before him.

   “What justice do their deaths serve?” He asks, and Ezekiel moves closer, backing him against the arm of the pew and into another parishioner. Their hips barely touch, and the student finds his hands pushing against Ezekiel’s shoulders. 

   “Retribution, sacrifice, absolution of our mortal guilt. Are you deaf, or are you just prone to speaking without thinking?” Ezekiel asks one hand against his jaw, the cross raised above his head in the other. It’s not long before blood-mottled fingers work their way into his mouth, tongue held firm and taut between his thumb and index finger. The would-be-pastor squirms in his grasp, shoving hard and craning his neck away.

   It’s not long before the parishioner behind him grabs his waist from behind, pulling back hard to keep him in place. The others rise, dragging him into a complete deadlock, sycophants acting as human shackles when the cross rotates to reveal a polished blade hidden in the shaft. A small wave of murmurs rise, the phrase  _ absolution  _ stuck in their collective throats.

_    “I don’t remember leaving you with your tongue _ .”

   In a swift motion, the man is left tongueless, his body going limp in agony as the others pull him across the pews, some with closed and empty eyes murmuring  _ absolution  _ over his screaming, others opening their mouths to mimic the words when their mouths proved nothing but a maw of black with the faint ghost of white teeth- no muscle to be seen.

   The parishioners collect the newest member, and Ezekiel steps aside, running the bloodied blade along the palm of his hand.

    He sits at the altar, watching the mass come to a still- all members of the parish sitting straight in the pews and forward facing-  and their silence comforts him, for a moment.

    They can’t leave, the blind unknowing where the doors are, how they hold still- barricaded from the outside. Those who know of the doors cannot speak, and those who knew too little of his mission lay dead in the water. Or in the rafters. Or behind the altar.

    Truthfully, Ezekiel forgets  _ where  _ their bodies go, only that they cease to exist in his own Eden, drowned by their own  _ apokalypsis _ and failure of their faith. Had they wanted to live- or at least  _ cared _ \- they would have turned to God the way  _ he  _ did. But, they sit, still in their lack of concern, and he is filled with righteous rage. In a sea of wordless, sightless men- he himself sees nothing but the void.

   An unspeakable, suffocating void, a velvet-tangled body hanging in the outskirts of the dark, before being eaten alive by a blue spark. He touches his own neck, notes scattered across the altar.

   “A great man once told me ‘ _ All saints have bones to pick _ ’. He told me this, and proceeded to-“

   The cross-knife returns, driving deep cuts parallel to his neck. This time, he does not scream or flinch, eyes upwards and watching God. With a shaking hand, he places the blade in his lap, taking pages from the altar in his hands.

    “He showed me the  _ value  _ of his words. He showed me his  _ blood _ .”

   Loose scritta finds itself jammed into the open wounds, the pages barely filling the gashes, yet locking into the fraying muscle and flesh- ink-laden notes fully visible to those in front of him.

   His breathing is ragged, desperate before he steels himself again, knife upturned to his mouth. He speaks a prayer, the blade pressed gently to the corner of his mouth.

   He speaks to the saint, to an archangel, to God himself, to the reverend. To anyone who listens. He will smile in the face of the faceless void, permanently, surely.

   The lights fizzle out behind him, and the void comes alive.


	7. Ex-Priest

   It takes three solid punches to the breaker and a blue streak of curses for the lights to return to the bar in the middle of the night, and Leavy’s knuckles suffer from raw red stains for their plight. The band plays on, a somber blues tune that he  _ knows  _ is only to mock and mourn the loss of Jean in his heart of hearts. Nobody fights in the Bonn Nui, not after that night.

   He stops selling himself as  _ Dr. Leavy _ , the name nothing but a noose reminding him of his past, and his barely present self. Without Jean or the deacon to harass him about it, he could simply exist quietly. A small death for his academic past, now the sole proprietor of the Bonn Nui.

   He almost lets the thought of the deacon go, until someone at the bar manages to yell over the bowing of a bass.

   “You ever go to service out at that church in the swamp?” The patron starts, taking a sip from his drink. “Shit you not, the people  _ I  _ know who went there haven’t been around for days.”

   Leavy’s curiosity grows, and he finds himself sidling up to the bar, picking the dirty rag from the bartop to wipe at a ring of condensation left by an abandoned glass. The other man shakes his head. 

   “I never went to the Assembly.” He says simply, voice heavy and deep with a sense of worldly knowledge that Leavy discerns as someone who didn’t truly care for the conversation. The other finishes his drink, slapping a loose pile of ones onto the counter.

   “Sure,  _ sure.  _ But I’d keep a lookout, some weird shit happens around here, Benny.” 

   He wanders away and out the front door, bell chiming to signal his exit. When the other man turns to face the bar, Leavy is standing next to him, drying a glass.

   “The weird shit, huh? Like a random guy paying for a Corona in singles at a bar in Nola?” Leavy japes and the man’s dark eyes narrow slightly at the sight of the bartender’s neck.

   “Like the  _ hundreds  _ of souls cropping up in the marsh, fixated to the mud and dirt because they died  _ dirty  _ and  _ angry.”  _

   Leavy blinks.

   “I don’t know what any of that means. But I  _ do  _ know you should probably lay off that absinthe. It’s gonna make you see a lot more than souls, sir.”

   Benny stifles a laugh behind a perfectly neutral frown, brows furrowing.  “So, are you tourist-stupid, or really-fucking-stupid?”

   “Recreational cocaine stupid,” Leavy says, hands up in defeat. “Why you ask? Is it the sunglasses indoors thing? You see, I have-“

    “You have a whole damn  _ veve  _ on your neck, stupid. A Ghede Loa veve. A veve of  _ death and violence.”  _ Benny bites out, hands grasping at his locked hair in agitation. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mindfreak.”

   “Mindfreak, what the hell-“ Leavy starts, before stepping back towards the bar. “No, you don’t get it. It’s a cross of Saint-“

   “Syncretism is some backwater church  _ bullshit  _ and you know it. You  _ know  _ what that damn thing is!”

   “What’s it matter to a guy like you what throat tattoos his bartender has?” Leavy asks arms crossed over his chest in full defense.

   “As a member of the  _ ghede loa,  _ I say it matters a whole lot to me that you’ve made yourself a deal with  _ Baron Kriminel,”  _ He says, rising to his full, daunting height. Leavy stares hard, but the mention of being a psychopomp drives a pit into his stomach. A younger version of himself would take pride in meeting a  _ true  _ psychopomp- he had heard stories. But this meeting reeked of something worse than childish joy. It is physically  _ painful. _

    “I needed swift judgment one night, he gave me swift judgment,” Leavy says shortly, his words careful on his tongue. Benny’s hand covers his mouth in shock and mild disbelief. “I didn’t think he’d give me the vodun equivalent of a Kokopelli face tattoo.”

   "You- You  _ knowingly  _ gave your life to him. And you do little magic parlor tricks?” Benny says voice strained. “... _ you met that fucking priest, didn’t you.” _

   Leavy flinches, before moving from behind the bar, gesturing to the back room.

   The two join each other in the privacy of the room where he had last seen the deacon, and he gestures widely.

   “People come to me when they have problems, Benny. I fix their problems. I read pretty little fake fortunes. It’s the gig Jean Bernier gave me when I moved here. He liked the whole  _ magic bartender  _ rigamarole.” 

   Benny sighs, harsh through the silence of the room.

   “And you dealt with someone from the seminary, didn’t you,” He asks before his question can finish, Leavy nods mournfully. “Because of  _ course,  _ you did.”

   “He took advice from Kriminel. I told him it was a saint.”  

   “You did  _ what?” _

_   “I fucking hate priests.”  _ Leavy groans, staring at the ceiling. “I hate them and all their organized hoity-toity bullshit. It was the only way he’d leave me alone.”

   Benny stares onwards at Leavy, mouth slightly agape.

   “You are a  _ horrible  _ human being.” He says, finally. “You are  _ directly  _ responsible for the murders of  _ so  _ many goddamn people-

   “Just tell me what the fuck you need.” Leavy barks, scratching the corner of his eye. “Because  _ I  _ need help if you want me to fix this. I’m one moron in a sea of morons. I can’t  _ un-kill  _ people, but I can kill a killer.”

   “What help do you need, Dr. Leavy?” Benny asks, voice wavering in its exhaustion. If he denies assistance, nothing will get done, he knows this. He sees Leavy hold up two fingers, and grimaces, slightly.

   “One. I need a bouncer to keep the peace while I’m trying to figure out what the  _ fuck  _ I did to that priest,” The index finger goes down, leaving only the middle remaining. “Two, you stop calling me  _ doctor  _ Leavy.  _ Doctor  _ Leavy killed people.  _ Mickey  _ Leavy unfucks them.”

   “Your name change won’t undo your past,” Benny says, certainly.

   Leavy grins, almost superficially mad.

   “Like hell, it won’t. But, I can damn well try.”


End file.
